


Full Moon Bloom

by Patchouli (lifelesslyndsey)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF!Stiles, Derek is a Failwolf, Flower meanings, Flowers, M/M, Queen Lydia, Regency piece, Spark Stiles, other stuff probs, sort of, takes place BITD, that's back in the day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5092388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifelesslyndsey/pseuds/Patchouli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I hear tell you sell the purple flower, that grows for the moon,” a rough voice said, his words formed carefully around a subtle Romanian accent.</p><p>“It’s after hours.” Stiles rose from where he’d been bent behind the counter, smiling benignly. “But for you, I can make exceptions. I sell many things, Lord Hale.” He fondled the rounded handle of his walking stick - a glossy thing made of old rowan and holly, and bathed in a tincture of aconite. It packed quite the punch, when necessary. “You’ll have to be more specific.”</p><p>“Moorland Monkshood,” the Lordling spat, letting his claws click across the counter. “Dried if you have it, but from a recent harvest.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Moon Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know what happened, this was a fic about flowers.

The young man who ran the flower shop at number 24 Pembury Way was an odd fellow.  A majority of Beacon - those folks who spoke openly of the subject at least-didn’t think him a proper gentleman, though he wore a well-tailored waistcoat and hat to match. Of course the coat and hat came in a color of red so ostentatious it made one wince upon sight; not particularly a gentleman's color. He lacked the manners too, that marked a young man of position. If he held his head high and confident when he walked, he walked with no known purpose. Instead he jaunted, limbs akimbo in a constant sprawl even when in motion. He spoke without eloquence, though at great length.   His laugh was too loud, and his smile just a shade too wicked for polite company.  He was overall, an oddly sort.

 

The young man of 24 Pembury Way was odd, but his flowers were lovely.

 

In his vases dwelled fat-headed roseblooms with thick, healthy thorns.  Vibrant rainbows of lilies- in reds and pinks and yellows- blossomed fragrantly from healthy buds. Heavy-hanging orchids that never wilted or fell before their time decorated his shop window. And his daffodils! Why, they were the size of tea-cups.

 

He’d stormed the sleepy town of Beacon in a rainfall of white petals on the eve of the Spring Moon Festival, and made his way to where the Queen sat upon her pedestal throne. Flanking each side were her ever-present twins, strapping young men with matching mischievous grins. They stood at the ready, chests puffed up and teeth bared like bulldogs.

 

“I’ve traveled far with word that here sits a Queen on the throne of Beacon with hair like a sunset and a countenance as sharp as a knight's blade. My name is Stilinsk,i your most majestic of Majesties, and I am at your service.” As he bowed, he  laid at her feet a delicate crown of astrid and aconite. ”Something wicked this way comes, Queen of Beacon. Something very, very wicked.”

 

“And who is to say that wicked thing isn’t you, with your rain of Rowan petals, and your crown of poison?” Queen Lydia collected the chain of pale blooms at her feet, and held them dangling from one delicate little finger.

 

To the collective confusion of the crowd, the strange man smiled. “Those who spoke of you, they did not mention you are as wise as you are beautiful.”

 

“That’s because I’m wiser,” the Queen replied, with a sharp smile of her own. She laid the crown of flowers over her head, and narrowed her eyes.  “Be welcome Mr.Stilinski, to the kingdom of Beacon. When this wicked thing does come, I’ll know where to find you.”

 

***

 

That had been some months ago though, and nothing wicked had yet to make itself known.  The people of Beacon steered clear of the strange man none the less. He seemed to find no insult in it, tipping his hat as he passed his fellow citizens in the street, even when they were sure to murmur in his wake.  Indeed, he seemed to find some pride in it, tossing flowers to the common children of the town even as they whispered behind their dirty, urchin hands.

 

He had a manservant about him, a pretty thing with deep dimples and dark eyes, who sold flowers from a sturdy wooden cart in the center of town. Scott he was called, and the townsfolk took to him far more quickly than his keeper. Scott was a kind thing, with wide shoulders and strong, gentle hands. Both the common and proper women swooned when he parked his flower cart, dropping coins in his dirty palm in exchange for rose blooms and stargazers.

 

He in turn tucked petals into the palm of one Allison Argent, Lady Knight to the Queen herself.  Few knew what flowers graced her hand, but Mr. Stilinski surely did.

 

“Perhaps the sweet pea today,” he suggested, popping a pale pink bud from a near plant. “To make known your delicate affections.”

 

“I should hope them known already,” Scott said, with a starry-eyed smile. “Perhaps a daisy crown instead? It is festival day, after all.”

 

“Oh I like that,” Stiles agreed, gathering the daisies from a watering pot. He had a sweet spot for flower crowns, not wholly limited to daisies.“Shall I?”

 

“Your hands are far more nimble than my own,” Scott agreed, watching as Stiles worked. “Do you think she knows my meaning, Stiles? Or am I just a lark to her? “

 

“A flower needs no meaning,” Stiles reasoned, looping the thin stalks into a chain. “Their true gift is simple beauty. One your dear Allison seems to take great pleasure in accepting.”

 

“She’s just so....” Scott sighed, near wilting against the countertop. “And did you know she’s a captain to the guard? How noble, how---”

 

“Attractive,” Stiles finished, smiling wryly at his friend as he weaved a ribbon of pale lavender into the chain of daisies. He added a few tiny sprays of Delphinium, for never had he met a man with a bigger heart than Scott McCall.

 

“She’s lovely,” Scott insisted, taking the crown of flowers from his friend carefully. “As is this, Stiles.  Thank you truely. I’d be lost without you.”

 

“I haven’t anyone to woo myself, better that I live through you,” Stiles replied, waving him off. “Although I daresay the Queen is fond of my Sword Lilies. Gone with you, before the flowers wilt in the new summer sun. Oh, and take these.” He gathered a bunch of peonies, not quite gone to wilt. “Give them to the children. For luck.”

 

***

 

Full Moon Bloom was a strange mix of flower shop and apothecary, though the latter was little known amongst the town.  A strange store for a strange sort - Stiles clientele were not the snobby nobles, but a darker crowd not particularly invested in his brilliant rosebloom topiaries.  No, his quiet clients came to him for a different sort of petal - aconite, valerian, nightshade, foxwart.

 

Creature comforts, as it were. Or at times, the very opposite.

 

The front room was a forest of crystalline vases, filled to bursting with fine cut blooms. To be sure, all of Stiles flowers were exquisite; large and fragrant, even in the cold months.  That was due in part to Stiles blatant use of magic, of which went largely ignored by the townspeople. The genteel folk of Beacon were not particularly keen, missing much of what was right in front of them.

 

Like the werewolves.

 

Not even just the werewolves - the town of Beacon was a veritable cornucopia of other worldly types. Werewolves were simply the creme de la crop.  Stiles made no measure to approach them, knowing in time they’d come to him.  And so they did in the late autumn months, when the air had turned crisp and bitter, and the moon was high in the sky.

 

“I hear tell you sell the purple flower, that grows for the moon,” a rough voice said, his words formed carefully around a subtle Romanian accent.

 

“It’s after hours.” Stiles rose from where he’d been bent behind the counter, smiling benignly. “But for you, I can make exceptions. I sell many things, Lord Hale.” He fondled the rounded handle of his walking stick - a glossy thing made of old rowan and holly, and bathed in a tincture of aconite. It packed quite the punch, when necessary. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

 

“Moorland Monkshood,” the Lordling spat, letting his claws click across the counter. “Dried if you have it, but from a recent harvest.”

 

Stiles leaned on his cane, looking thoughtfully at the werewolf before him. “That is specific,” he murmured, curiously. “I’ve sold none recently, so you can’t be seeking a cure. Rare too - Moorland Monkshood is a delicate thing to harvest. Tell me then, why you seek it and perhaps I can be of better service.”

 

“I have money.” Lord Hale ignored his request, flicking a purse onto the counter. It broke open, spilling coins across the surface. “I needn’t much.”

 

Stiles ignored the purse, and ignored the Lord in return. “Of course Moorland Monkshood has other purposes. Counteracting white aconite, for instance. Or even....” He turned his shrewd gaze to the window. “Does another pack encroach, Lord Hale? Do you mean to ward your den?”

 

“It’s a townhouse,” Lord Hale corrected him curty. “There have been signs of others outside the walls of Beacon. My mother suggested---”

 

“The Lady Hale,” Stiles interrupted, delighted. “Does she visit Beacon? I'd have brought my goods to her. She only need ask.”

 

Lord Hale gave him a disgusted look and Stiles remembered belatedly that most Lordlings did not like to be interrupted. “She does not – she sent word by courier, and mentioned in passing that you might have on hand what I need. Such things are best not delivered far.”

 

“Indeed,” Stiles agreed, smiling to himself that the Lady Talia Hale would recommend him. “I have much of what you seek I think, but why not ward the whole of Beacon, and not only your den?”

“Town house,” Lord Hale barked, baring his teeth. “The Banshee sits sovereign and while she is smitten of my sister, she holds little fondness for me.”

 

So the Queen was a Banshee; that certainly explained a few things. He'd be sure to send her vase of screaming orchids on the morrow, to let her know of his new knowledge. “Queen Lydia won't let you settle then.” He tapped his fingers along the counter, humming thoughtfully to himself. “These lands aren't yours to protect. Not yet.”

 

“Much of the outward lands are already settled by my kinsman,” Lord Hale explained, testily. “It is only the sovereign city to hold no wolf. My mother wishes me to claim Beacon, and offer my services to the Queen”

 

“Of which you'd clearly rather not.” It was clear in the lines of Lord Hale's shoulders – drawn tight beneath the well cut cloth of his coat – that he was no city wolf. “Why not send Lady Laura?”

 

“Laura's pack is better suited to keep larger holdings. She boasts numbers of twenty and more. My pack is....Growing, still.”

 

Stiles laughed. “Your pack is small. I have a wolf about me, you know? I'm sure you can smell it. He's no desire to take a pack, but an omega never prospers. Offer him simple sanctuary under your name, and I'll help you aught I can. He'll not obey you, but he'll answer to me and I'll give you my word he'll cause you no ill.”

 

“I'll offer you coin like any other patron.” Lord Hale glared, eyes flashing a brilliant, glittering red. “Nothing else. I've no need of a wayward mutt, and the word of  trickster-whore’s get is worse than dirt.”

 

“If you think I deal in coin Lord Hale, you're more the fool.” Stiles drew himself up, insult puffing him with pride. He did not move as he willed the candle lanterns set about the room to sputter out, until the only light left poured in through the windows from the half-moon outside. He raised his hands, folding them together against his stomach. “I'm more than a trickster, and my mother was the Duchess D’Claudette of Perinwold.” He breathed in and out, and let the shadows grow around them. “You’ll be crying for my help soon enough,” he finished, and set the counter on fire with little more than a thought.

 

Lord Hale shouted, tearing his be-clawed hand away as the accursed wood burned them. “Witch,” he spat, shaking out his bubbling, welted hand. “I came here on the word of my mother; I'll be sure to let her know what hospitality I found.”

 

“And I'll be sure to let dear Alpha Talia know her son could stand to learn a few manners,” Stiles told him, brusque. “She speaks so kindly of you in our letters, but a mother does dote on her youngest cub, does she not? You’re no credit to your family, if this is the manner you treat all.”

 

“You honestly claim know my mother?” Derek replied, eyebrows rising. He looked a little flush in the moonlight, as if Stiles had caught him out. “You lie.”

 

Stiles grabbed a fatheaded fresh rose from the nearest vase and willed it to ash in his crushing palm. He let it trickle out between his fingers to the counter, scattered in such a way to make a three spiraled mark. The Triskele – signifier to the Hales and the Hales alone. “She did recommend me, did she not?”

 

Derek Hale said no more, sweeping out of the shop with a growl. Stiles watched him mount his horse, a sleek black thing, Camaro bred if Stiles had to guess. Money could not buy manners, but Stiles would admit it could certainly buy style.

 

****

 

“A vixen waits for you in the shop,” Scott announced as Stiles murmured into a near heliotrope. It opened beneath his whispered words, tiny petals unfurling shyly to reveal vibrant purple center. “Beware her wandering hands. She has the stink of Hale about her too. I'm not fond of her, already.”

 

“That's because you're a prude for anyone but Allison Argent.” He petted the little flower, willing it to grow.  Heliotropes were hearty, long lasting things, but shy to show themselves.

 

“You keep magicking the flowers and the town will grow suspicious. Even with your clever  hothouse,” Scott scolded him, but his voice was mildly.  “They’ll burn you on the cross, friend mine. And I’ll be quick to follow, I’m sure.”

 

“A Banshee sits sovereign; if they haven't noticed that, they’ll take no notice of me.” Stiles sighed, abandoning his blossoms. “Derek Hale sends a pup,” he wondered aloud, setting the lilies to water. On a whim, he stole an astrid from a pile of stray cuttings. “She comes for a cure then.”

 

“A cure for what?” Scott asked, sounding bewildered. His gaze narrowed, voice turning as chastising as his own mother, the dear Melissa. “What did you do, Stiles?”

 

“He called you a mutt, my mother a whore, and accused me of simple hand-magic,” Stiles explained, sounding not sorry in the least. “And he dared put his claws on my fine counter tops. I carved them myself, I won't have them scratched.”

 

“I'm taking the cart to market.” Scott rolled his eyes at Stiles, and collected his coat from the peg by the door. “Best you not upset this one, I think. She has the look of a lady mantis, and I’d rather you not lose your head.”

 

Stiles mulled that over, changing the astrid out for something more fierce. “I do like them feisty.”

***

 

Erica Reyes was a peach-bloom, lovely in a way that made Stiles flush. He'd never been terribly suave when it came to women. The merest hint of a pale ankle left him fumbling. Ms. Erica Reyes was showing quite a bit more.

 

“Mr.Stilinski,” she purred, leaning over his counter to expose a daring decolletage. Stiles had seen less skin shown upon a whore, but he'd never dare to say as much. “I come with a request.”

 

“I'm sure you do,” Stiles told her, leaning away. She smelled of jasmine, light but fragrant. It suited her, but Stiles would not be won by flowers. “But I'm not inclined to grant it.”

 

“I can be very persuasive,” Erica tried again, trailing a finger down the doublet of Stiles fine red coat. “Indeed, if you were inclined---”

 

Stiles grinned at that, laying a hand over her own,  boldly. A woman might touch, but a man ought not. Stiles was no mere man. “A lovely offer, but my inclinations lay upon another path. Of course,  if your pack boasts young men half as lovely as you, I might be inclined to accept.”

 

At that, Erica pulled back, with a roll of her eyes. The coy curl of her mouth melted away to reveal a pleasantly wicked grin. “If I can't sway you with my charms, what might?”

 

“Well I wouldn't say no to Lord Hale propositioning me,” Stiles said loftily. “Though I'd accept an apology from his mouth at minimum. His hand won't heal without my cure. Either he request service of his mother's Emissary, or he ask me personally.”

 

Erica snorted, inelegant and unladylike. Stiles liked her more for it. “He already called for Emissary Deaton. The man simply laughed at him and bid him bite his tongue the next time he think to try and burn a fire spark with acid words.” Her eyes lingered on him. “You're the spark then?”

 

“Alan Deaton trained me until there was nothing left to train,” Stiles explained, proudly. “I was nine. I am the Spark he names me for, no pick-pocket trickster whoreling, as your bitter Lord might claim.”

 

Her sharp features softened at the mention of Lord Hale. “He is not a bad man, Mr.Stilinski, just slow to warm when it comes to strangers. You are a dangerous stranger, with your magic flowers and a wolf at your disposal. You sit in a land Derek means to claim, and the Queen is open in her fondness for you. If you cannot excuse him for his behavior, at least understand from whence it comes.”

 

“Scott McCall is my friend.” Stiles held her gaze.“Not a wolf at my disposal. Have you ever been an Omega, Lady Rheyes? I think not---”

 

“Briefly,” Erica cut him off, soft and sorrowful. “Not a thing I wish to repeat.”

 

“Indeed,” Stiles agreed. “Scott is an omega, bitten by a rogue I was forced to kill. He's never known a pack, and has no desire too. But for this, he leads a hard life. I do what I can, with my magical flowers. So understand where my own ire comes from. Scott McCall is no mutt, and I no street-born card flinger. I demand respect.” He gathered up the mended coin purse Lord Hale had left behind, and slid it across the counter. “See that returned to your Lord, or don’t. I haven’t any reason to keep it.”

 

Erica looked at him shrewdly. “If Derek sends the young man in our pack, Isaac is his name, will you be inclined to heal him? We’ve another, Vernon Boyde, but he isn't one for such dalliances.” She looked thoughtful then. “Although, if you find him pleasing, such things can be arranged if need be.”

 

Stiles balked at that, as if he were the sort to consider taking what was not freely offered. “Does Derek Hale inspire such loyalty, that his cubs might lay themselves bare for his gain?”

 

“His gain is our gain,” Erica replied, sounding both reasonable and insane to Stiles ears. “And ours his. An Alpha is only as good as his betas.  So yes, we are loyal to him in a way a human could never understand.”

 

“I’ve no need for young men.” He grinned then, and laid down a price he knew would never be paid. Nobles did not bare themselves for the likes of Stiles Stilinski.  “I’ll have none but your Alpha, at any rate. He does strike quite the figure, if the cut of his coat speaks true.”

 

Erica laughed, a pretty sound that brightened her features. “I’d say you weren’t to his liking Mr. Stilinski, but I’d be lying.”

 

Stiles handed her the flower he’d plucked from the back - he’d chosen well. “For you, my dear. Consider it an apology from any ire I inspire in your Alpha.”

 

Erica took the bloom, eyes sparkling. “What is it?” She asked, which pleased Stiles to no end.

 

“Aoife.” He watched as she petted the silken yellow petals. “A Gaelic bloom, for radiance. I picked rightly I think, for you Ms. Reheys..”

 

“Charming.” Erica lifted one slender brow. “Perhaps you have something for my dear Alpha, to cool his ire as you say?”

 

“It won’t be Moorland Monkshood,” Stiles warned, but gathered a blossom from a near pot none the less. “Peony, for healing.”

 

“Funny,” Erica said dryly, as she swept away from the counter in a flutter of lace skirts. She wore the colors of mourning, but Stiles thought perhaps they were just the colors of Derek Hale; black like his horse, his cloak, and his soul . “Until we meet again, Mr. Stilinski.”

 

 

***

 

 

Indeed, Lord Hale did send his boy, a curly headed Botticelli painting come to life.  Stiles didn’t care for him, and he garnered the feeling was mutual. Scott however, earned his admiration almost immediately.

 

“I’ve things to be doing,” Stiles said mildly to his shop assistance. “As do you.  Take your new friend Isaac to the market if you must, but the flowers shant sell himself. Perhaps two pretty faces will sell twice as many. I don’t care, just be gone.” He paused, gathering up the sprays of White Heather he’d gathered in bunches the evening before.  A totem for protection. “For the children. Bid that they place them beneath their pillows before sleep takes them.”

 

“And for my Lord?,” Isaac asked, looking curiously at Stiles, from where Scott was setting up the cart.

 

“He seems to understand I can’t be bought with simple coin,” Stiles acceded. “But nor can I be bought with a lovely face.”

 

Isaac looked irritable. “Then what is your price?”

 

“Respect,” Stiles smiled brightly. “For a start, anyway.  He’s dealt me an insult. Were I of better breeding or standing here in Beacon, I’d challenge him to a duel. As I am not, I’ll make due with an apology.”

 

“You want Derek to apologize?” Isaac reeled back, eyes wide. “To a commoner?”

 

“You asked, and I answered.” Stiles plucked the head from  Star Gazer, and tossed it at Isaac. “For your Lord - to cleanse one of ill deeds.”

 

***

 

The next day found Vernon Boyde in his shop.  The strapping young man was beautiful thing, a full head taller than Stiles himself, with skin the color of newly turned soil.  He took one look at him, and gestured him in with a sigh. “Care for a cup of tea?”

 

Vernon looked at him shrewdly first, before accepting. “There is nothing else you might require?”

 

“Well, I’ve already a wolf on hand for my heavier lifting.  There’s a nest of birds stuck in my storm grate Scott refuses to remove, as they were here first. Remove that, and I might be inclined to offer you lunch with our tea.”

 

In the end, Vernon did move the birds nest from the grate to a nearby tree. They had lunch of capers and hearty bread. They spoke of Stiles greenhouse, of which Boyde found quite clever. He even suggested how one might go about recreating a small-scale aqueduct. There were worse ways to pass the evening.

 

“Before you go,” Stiles said, gathering the leafs from a may-plant. “They’re said to bring good dreams. For your Lord.”

 

***

 

Stiles paid the Hale House a visit the following week, a colorless bouquet of cereus buds in hand.  Lord Hale received him in a minor parlor, looking as dower as ever in his coal-black suit, his left hand adorned in a well fitted glove.  His left, but not his right.

 

“A gift,” he said, flourishing the unlovely bouquet.  The petals were veiny and opaque, as if one was looking through their own eyelids, and the buds were furled tight, fist-sized and strange looking, like a dragon snout.

 

“My thanks,” Lord Hale intoned duly, collecting the flowers. Manners it seemed were not easily offered, but Stiles admired the attempt all the same. Poorly offered though it was, he thought it cost Lord Hale quite a bit to show such gratitude

 

“The wound will fester.” Stiles did not bother to dissemble, eyeing pointedly the gloved hand hanging uselessly at Lord Hale’s side. “Faster than your body will heal. You’ll grow weak in trying. Already I suspect, your veins turn black. If it reaches your heart...well even a werewolf cannot cure that.”

 

Lord Hale looked away, both in denial and truth. “And you will not give aide?”

 

“But I already have.” Stiles laughed, setting the flowers on the side board. “And at no cost to your pride. Consider it a debt, Lord Hale. Best put these to water - they’re a precarious lot, as the moon-born ilk are wont to be.”  He made no other gesture of departure, save for closing the door behind him. Lord Hale did not stop him.

 

He spoke the truth, Stiles did.  He’d given the ungrateful Lord Hale the cure in three fold.  First Erica with a peony, then Isaac with a stargazer, and lastly Boyd, who took to his Lord the last good leaves of a spring born may-plant.  

 

“Scott,” Stiles called out tiredly, as he stepped into their shared apartment above the shop. “Please take this to the Hale House, I’d have left it myself but I found my arrival was ill received.”

 

“Lord Hale apologized?” Scott asked curiously, eying the anti-curse printed neatly across the velum scrap.

 

Stiles laughed. “Not hardly, but I’m too soft to see a grown man suffer.  Better I heal him and he remember the kindness.”

 

“I doubt very much he’ll thank you for it,” Scott folded the velum, and tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket. “He’ll owe you a debt.”

 

“Perhaps,” Stiles agreed, hanging his own coat on the peg by the door. “Be on your way then, I’ve things to be doing.”

 

“The night bloomers?” Scott questioned, pausing in the doorway. “I saw clippings from the Cerus. You never cut them.”

 

“Their beauty is lost on most.” Stiles thumbed idly at the buttons of his sleeves, staring out the window at the moon above. It was near to full.  “But not Lord Hale, I think.”

 

“You gave them to Lord Hale?” Scott reeled, halting where he stood. “You prize your Cereus above all else. Do you fancy him?”

 

Stiles did not say no - in this he knew better. Instead, he said somewhat else. “Does the sun force a rose to bloom? Or does the rose simply wish to bathe in the light? Perhaps I only wish to be admired, Scott. Who better to appreciate a moon-bloom than a man who claims the same?”

 

“Derek Hale is no bloom,” Scott balked, rolling his eyes. “He’s nigh feral, Stiles.”

 

“All the more reason.” Stiles grinned brightly at his friend. “Who am I to disdain a wild flower?”

 

***

 

When Stiles saw Lord Hale the following morning, his glove was gone and pinned to his jacket was a single Cereus bloom. A small one, for the largest would have been ostentatious for even the most daring of flower-donning patrons. It sat abreast his jacket, pale against his austere black.

 

Stiles grinned as he watched the man pass the shop.  He bunched up the bundles of tiny yellow flowers, stringing them neatly with lengths of twine. They’d hang from the rafters over the brazier for a day.

 

He was arranging flowers for a wedding when the bell chimed from the front of the shop. “Welcome to Full Moon Bloom,” Stiles called, not looking up from the spray of delicate hydrangeas. They were a finicky flower, wont to wilting if you did not sing their praises rightly. “Just a moment, please.”

 

“Careless.” Lord Hale stood in the doorway of the backroom. He flinched back at the smell of it, an overpowering scent of flowers that sometimes even made Stiles’ nose twitch. “I could have been anyone. You who knows of such dangers, and should know better than to be so careless.”

 

“I run a shop,” Stiles shrugged, twisting the leaves so they suited his whims. He blew across their delicate green skin, making them curl prettily “And if you came with ill intent, you’d not be here at all.”

 

“Hmm,” Lord Hale arched a thick, black brow. “Those flowers you brought - they bloom beneath the moon.”

 

“They’re not alone in it, if that’s what you're asking,” Stiles looked up for a moment, tracing the long lines of Lord Hales body. Scott was wrong - Derek Hale was a bloom; tall and proud and smugly beautiful. “There are several flowers that do, but Cereus is my personal favorite.”

 

Something in Lord Hale’s face shifted a little, giving way to a small smile. It wilted as fast as it bloomed, but he spoke kindly none the less. “My mother had something like it. It was smaller, and red. She made it into a tea, for after the Moons.”

 

“Hibiscus,” Stiles told him, for he’d planted it on the Hale Estates in Romania himself, only a few years prior.  He had not met young Lord Hale then, for more often than naught, Talia’s children were scattered to the winds, hot to make a name for themselves. “Yes, I know. She brews it with lemonbalm and Mugswort, yes?”

 

“Yes,” Lord Hale replied. “She said our Emissary and his companion planted them.”

 

“Companion?” Stiles grinned - it was not a thing Alan had ever called him to his face. “Not his apprentice? I knew he liked me.”

 

“Not at the time,” Lord Hale explained, looking deeply at Stiles. “I did not know you studied beneath Monsieur Deaton?”

 

“My apprenticeship was short.” Stiles had exceeded all that Alan could teach him in only a few short years.  His magic was not something plucked from a book to be learned, but in him. It was as much a part of him as was his flesh and blood. “Your mother's garden was the last I saw him, I do believe. We share a healthy correspondence, but the road calls his name.”

 

Lord Hale fell silent a moment, before his shoulders fell. “So you really do know my mother.”

 

Stiles fished out a chain from beneath the collar of his shirt. On it hung many silver symbols, one of which was the three spiral Triskelion of House Hale. Alan wore one too - all the Emissaries of Hale Pack did. “I do,” Stiles said, no mirth in his voice, only gentle admission. “She sent me to you, and you to me. You understand now.”

 

“I thought it was the duty of an Emissary to help their pack.” Derek clenched his hand at his side, freshly healed, the skin pink and new. “But you will not give me the Monkshood.”

 

Stiles drew himself up a little, pulling his shoulders back. “And you will not show me respect. Mayhap now you might, as you know me in truth. But when you believed me aught but a human, you treated me as if I were beneath you. I am not beneath you, Derek Hale. My place in any pack should hold value, and respect.  I will not help you, until this you understand.” He looked at Derek then, really looked at him. “Even now, you will not apologize for you are neither sorry, nor a liar.”

 

Something bright flared in Derek’s eyes, not the red of an Alpha, but something else, and he did not deny Stiles words. “I would ward the city,” he said, almost hesitantly. “But I cannot do so without Queen Lydia’s permission.”

 

“Perhaps in some instances, it is better to beg forgiveness than to ask for permission,” Stiles hedged, thumbing a hearty clutch of gerberas. “How deep does the pocket of Lord Hale go? I’ve an idea, if you’ve the money.”

 

“If it helps me make my name here, deep enough,” Derek’s jaw clenched, and he breathed through his teeth. “But I am not sure----”

 

“I am,” Stiles cut him off brightly. “And if she takes it badly, I’ll take fault. Come then, we’ve seedlings to foster.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> more to come!


End file.
